Collecting Strays: Of Trust and Vices
by SpiritBearr
Summary: Adopting the boys was the easy part.
1. Chapter 1

**Collecting Strays: Of Trust and Vices**

**A/N: And heeeere is one of those sequals I mentioned. Nothing but fluff, here, really, but I'll try to fill in some of the story gaps. Once again, I hope KCS doesn't mind if Alfie shows up in later chapters. ^_^ **

**Rating: T to be safe**

**Author: Spiritbearr  
**

**Chapter One: Of Nightmares**

Sherlock doesn't scream. He never has, not since the first time he ever suffered these nightmares. But John has become hyper-aware and alert with two troubled boys in his midsts, and when he hears footsteps on the stairs he knows Sherlock's awake. He sighs, pushing up on an elbow as Mycroft's voice sounds from outside the door in a low whisper.

He stands, pulls on a robe, and is outside of the bedroom in moments. The boys are on the way back to their bedroom, Sherlock clutching a glass of something and Mycroft just behind, wrapping a blanket around his baby brother's shoulders. He stops when John appears, and Sherlock instantly ducks back, nearly loosing his glass.

"Easy." He whispers. "I didn't mean to scare you. You two alright?"

"Fine." Mycroft says, but his hand is protectively on Sherlock's shoulder. Even now, after months, Mycroft is wary of him. He _wants_ to trust- John can see that much- but he's simply been through too much and is far too used to watching out for his younger brother and himself. "He just had a bad dream."

John sighs. That hasn't gotten any better.

"Want to talk about it?" He asks the younger boy gently, and instantly Sherlock falls back behind Mycroft. Normally, he is the most outgoing of children-he speaks like an adult, speaks _to_ adults without flinching, exploitative and inquisitive and independent to the point of it being dangerous. (They've had him go missing no less then two times already, with Mycroft finding him once stuck in a tree and John the other time locating him making friends with a stray dog about four streets from anywhere familiar.)

But at night, after a dream, (or rather when it comes to _anything_ personal) he instantly shrinks away and retreats like a beaten pup.

"No." He says, bluntly. "I just-I'm fine."

"Are you certain?" He asks, pitching his voice low. "It's okay not to be."

Sherlock just shakes his head again, and Mycroft hasn't removed his hand, so John backs off.

* * *

The second time it happens, John wakes up when they're on the way _down_stairs, rather then back up. He finds them in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson presenting them both with warm milk and snacks. She glances up when he comes in, and he's shocked to see tear streaks on her cheeks.

She holds up a finger for silence, and then, when she can, makes her way to him in the doorway.

"Poor darlings," She whispers. "Those poor little darlings."

"What happened?" He asks, which is something of a redundant question, because what _hasn't_ happened to those boys? But she takes a deep breath and steadies herself, running her hands down her front.

"Mycroft was having trouble getting to sleep," She explains, "and foolish me convinced him to come down and help me make him up a snack." Here John winces slightly- Mycroft _really_ needs to stop using food as a crutch, the boy'll be overweight if they don't watch him- "And?"

"And, I should have listened to the poor dear." She looks at the pair, talking quietly at the table. Mycroft is showing Sherlock something, their heads close together, talking softly and gesturing as his younger brother watches with avid attention. "He insisted Sherlock would be frightened if he woke up alone, but I had no idea-"

"How bad it would be?" He finishes for her. "I've experienced it myself."

"He didn't make a sound, that's the worst of it." She replies. "Just appeared down here and made a dash right for Mycroft, like he hadn't seen him in months. And his brother, he dropped down right to one knee and opened up, and got Sherlock all huddled up in his arms like a kitten. That little one was crying, Doctor, without so much as a _sound_. Most uncomfortable sight you've ever seen, that silent crying."

John nods with a frown- he's seen _that_, too. "It's as if he's learned how to. Been taught how to remain quiet. And, come to that, I don't think I've ever seen Mycroft in tears, not since Sherlock was hurt."

She nods. "He just stood there, shaking like a little leaf, for minutes. Took us the better part of an hour to get him to calm down, and then to unlatch from Mycroft's shirtfront. He's absolutely terrified of being taken away from his brother."

"And Mycroft is terrified of loosing him, which makes me think it's happened before." John sighs. "But for the life of me I can't get them to tell me when or why."

From the kitchen, Sherlock suddenly clambers down from the chair and approaches. He darts in between John and Mrs. Hudson, grinning as if nothing in the world was wrong.

"Did we wake you up?" He asks, looking mischievously upward.

"Mm, no." John kneels, opens his arms, and Sherlock willingly crawls into them, letting himself be lifted. "But it's late, and you should both be asleep. What woke you?"

"Just a dream." Mycroft is the one who answers, from where he's cleaning up a spill that explains Sherlock's mischievous glance. "It's just a dream-"

"He's been having those."

"It's nothing." Mycroft picks up the cup, sets it down, and extends a hand. Instantly Sherlock wiggles free and moves from John to his brother.

"When it's something," John murmurs, watching Sherlock carefully, "you both know you can let _me_ know."

* * *

The next time it's not Sherlock at all.

John gets home late, shivering inside his coat and hurting, inside and out. Death is always a hard thing to take, but when it's a small child, and all you can picture is your _own_ children....or _child_, the one you had before, the one you couldn't save-

He shakes his head once, hard.

When it was _that_ situation, it was always worse. The little boy had had raven hair and pale skin, and been thin and small, and while his eyes had been blue, not gray, they'd been such a light blue as to be close enough. A drunken cab driver, a little boy, a dark night; the child had been dead even before John had gotten there. The sobs of the parents still rang in his ear-

Wait.

Those weren't phantom cries of a tormented mother and father. Those were real, muffled sobs, the sound of someone trying _hard_ to stay silent.

Fear piercing his heart, and his own pain and aches are forgotten as he launches up the stairs, the boy's names on his lips. He staggers when he gets up, leg buckling, and falls into the wall. The thump, combined with his calling and the stampeding herd of wild animals he sounded like coming up those stairs should have woken the entire house; that no one comes makes his heart race.

The sobs have stopped.

He pauses in front of the door to the sitting room-where the sound was coming from- and pushes it open, gently.

_Mycroft_?

The teen is curled in a chair near the fireplace, not the Holmes he was expecting to see, a blanket pulled up around his knees and his face hidden. He's in night cloths, and his shaggy black hair is a rumpled mess around his head.

"Mycroft." He says, tenderly and the boy doesn't even move. He approaches, slowly, and when he puts a hand on the boy's shoulder there is a violent flinch.

"Leave me be." Comes the growled reply. "Go _away_."

"I can't do that." He crouches, carefully, one hand still on the boy's shoulder. "What happened?"

"It's just a dream. Go away."

"Mycro-"

"_Go away_! I don't _want_ to talk to you, I don't _want_ to talk about it, I just-want-you-to-leave-me-alone!" His head comes up, tear streaks down his cheeks, gray eyes normally so cold and calm now aching and dark. "Leave us both alone and stop trying to-to-"

"To what?" John stays quiet and calm, sensing how close to the edge this boy is hovering. His chest is heaving, and he's torn between leaning into John's hand and moving away from it. "To help? Mycroft, you don't have to keep this private. It's nothing to be ashamed of, crying. You've been through a lot these last few months, and there's more to come. It's natural. Even healthy."

"I need to go back." Mycroft has shoved his hand off at last. "Sherlock can't wake up alone."

"We're not done here."

"He can't be alone." Mycroft stands, pushing John's chest away. "I just didn't want him to see. He can't ever see."

_Oh, Mycroft._

_

* * *

  
_

_She was a beautiful woman, Mary Morstan. Proud, intelligent, strong, clever and charming; a perfect match for John Watson, everyone who knew them both said so. He met her nearly a year after returning from the war, and they were married not long after. Inspector Gabriel Lestrade, one of John's close companions, had stood as the best man, and in fact most of the Yarders had been present for the wedding, as John had become a police surgeon and knew most of them personally. _

_They were so happy; so happy together, with each other, even with the sometimes dangerous profession he had. So much so that he'd never thought he could get even more content with his life. Not, that is, until she'd told him. _

"_John," She'd told him, her grin mischievous, "Would you ever want to pass your name on? John jr?" _

"_There's a thousand 'Johns'," He replied absently, not really paying her his full attention, not at first. "I'd never do that to the poor boy." _

"_Oh." A pause, a giggle. "What about 'Mathew', then? I've always liked that name. Or, if it's a girl, something like 'Rose?' It's rather common, itself, but such a pretty name." _

"_Rose is a lov-" He stopped, blinked, turned. "Wait. Why are you-" _

_Another giggle. "I'm surprised at you, John. A doctor unable to tell when his own wife is pregnant." _

_He felt a touch light-headed. "Pregnant? You?" _

"_No, John, my moth-ah!" She shrieked as he scooped her into his arms, laughing helplessly, her own joining in harmony. "John, put me down this instant! John Watson! Watson! Watson-Watson-"_

"Watson!"

And his eyes snap open.

He gasps, feeling wetness on his cheeks, his breath shuddering in his chest. Sherlock is staring at him from the side of the bed, gray eyes wide, clutching the bed cloths.

"Sherlock." He gasps softly, closing his eyes once. "What are you doing in my room?"

Instantly the boy shrinks back, physically retreating towards the door. "I'm sorry." He apologizes swiftly. "I didn't mean to wake you up. But you were mumbling, and crying, and I didn't-"

"Why did you come in in the first place?" His voice is rather more brisk then he wants it to be. But that dream, that cruel, wonderful memory, has left him raw and open. It's only the night after the horrible mess with the boy and the cab driver, the night he found Mycroft in tears.

Another step back.

"I didn't-you said-" He's biting his lower lip. "I-"

If John had been more awake, or less vulnerable, or perhaps both, he would have seen the self-conscious nerves in the gray eyes. He would have swept Sherlock into his arms and gone down to get a drink and let the boy talk or cry or even sleep in the room with him.

Now, though, he's exhausted and barely able to make sense of anything, and can't stop himself before he's snapped, "_What_, Sherlock?"

"Nothing. Never mind." The boy whispers, and slips out of the room. He's barely two minutes gone before John comes more awake- and realizes what he's done. Sherlock came to him- for the first time, Sherlock _came to him_, of his own free will, wanting help and support- and John had snarled and barked, too caught up in his own memories and pain to see the boy _needed_.

"Wonderful, John." He mutters, running a hand over his face. He pushes out of the bed and pads out of the room.

"Sherlock?" He calls, softly, tying a rob around himself. "Sherlock, lad, I'm sorry-" He enters the sitting room, looks at Sherlock who is sitting on the couch under the window. The boy jumps when he comes in, turning his wide gray eyes to John.

"Mycroft always says I've got the manners of a child raised by wolves." He says, very softly. "But you wouldn't answer and then you were crying and saying some woman's name, over and over. I thought-"

"Sherlock, no." John takes a seat next to the boy, tentatively wraps an arm over his shoulders. "I've said that my room is always open to both of you, and if you need me that I'm here. I made a lier of myself tonight, it seems."

"But I just- came in-"

"Sherlock, if I mean you to stay out of any room in this house, I'll tell you why and lock the door if I must. Otherwise, this is your home now, as much as it is mine. I adopted you because I wanted you as family, not because I _had _to. Why were you coming in, anyway?"

"I had a bad dream." He whispers in admitance, "And Mycroft wouldn't wake up-"

"Wait, _Mycroft _wouldn't wake up?" Both boys are incredibly light sleepers.

" 'S why I came to get you." A shrug. "He's alright, but he always wakes up, and he won't-"

"Alright." John runs a hand over his face. "Alright. Sherlock, let's go check on Mycroft, and then we'll tend to you, okay?"

"I don't need to be tended to-"

"I've already said I _want_ to, Sherlock." He reaches out a hand which Sherlock takes, and leads the boy back to his room. He knocks once, then pushes open the door. Mycroft is sleeping peacefully on the boys' shared bed, and Sherlock bounces up on it on his knees.

"Sherlock Holmes!" John hisses, but Sherlock ignores him and begins to rather rudely shake Mycroft. It does take a disturbing amount of time for Mycroft to stirr; but just at a glance, it simply seems to be exhaustion. He rolls over as John approches, eyes slit open.

" "Lock? Doctor?" A soft yawn, and he sits up, rubbing a hand over one eye. "What?"

"Mycroft, for heaven's sake." John checks for a fever- none, and his hand is batted away. "You nearly gave your younger brother a heart attack."

"I did?" More awake now, and reaching for Sherlock. "Sherlock, I was _sleeping_, how did I frighten

you?"

"You wouldn't wake up." Comes the shy whisper. "You always wake up."

Guilt flashes in Mycroft's eyes, and John sighs.

"Okay, boys, I think we need to have a meeting." He says, very seriously.

"_Now_?" Mycroft says, pushing back the covers. Despite his growl, his arm is around Sherlock's waist, and he's pulled the boy against his chest.

"Yes, now." John folds his arms over his chest. "We can do this right here. Get comfortable, boys."

Mycroft leans back on the headboard, still clutching his younger brother, who twines his arms around his bigger brother and watches.

"Now." He says. "Listen to me, both of you. I understand that you are both used to being alone with only each other to rely on. But those days are over now- truly, they are." He takes a deep breath. "I told Sherlock and I'll tell you, Mycroft, that I did not take you into my home because I _had_ to. I did it because I _wanted_ to. We have a long road still ahead of us, boys, and you _have got_ to learn to start trusting me. Which means no more hiding when you have a problem, or a nightmare, and no more keeping things from me. You can come to me. For anything."

Sherlock lifts his head up.

"What about you? You were having a nightmare."

"That.....wasn't a nightmare." He takes a shuddering breath.

"If you expect us to tell you everything, you can't hide things from us." Mycroft says, watching him feircly.

"I don't and I'm not." He snaps back. "If there are things you're not ready to talk about, I understand that. But you don't have to_ talk_ about anything. You can just let me know you had a bad night of it, and I'll see if I can help you get back to sleep. Or stay up with you."

"You didn't anwser me."

He lets out a shuddering sigh. "And that is something_ I'm_ not ready to talk about." He says, very quietly.

* * *

The sounds of a nightmare ring out through the house, a small voice crying out in fear and pain. It continues on until another, deeper voice rolls over the top of it, soothing, comforting.

Bare feet on floorboards.

The creak of a door.

A new voice.

Giggling.

More soft footsteps.

Mrs. Hudson finds them in the sitting room the next morning, John in a chair and the boys curled on the floor, smiling contentedly, Watson's soft snores causing the two semi-awake boys on the rug helpless amusement.

The peace and stillness is broken when Sherlock decides leaping onto John's lap to wish him an exuberant good morning is a fantastic idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Of Loyalty**

"_Mycroft Holmes_."

John's not angry. Really, he can't be angry, not when he _knows _Mycroft has a good reason for doing what he did.

The boy is standing there, head up, defiant and proud, with a blackened eye and split lip. Sherlock is pushed hard behind him, one arm out across his little brother's chest.

The boy has a bloodied nose and is holding his arm at an awkward angle, using his brother's ever-growing body to hide behind. They are the both of them covered in bruises and cuts, their cloths ruined, dirt matting their hair and skin.

"They shouldn't have been picking on a small boy." Mycroft murmurs defensively, and Sherlock sniffles blood.

John sighs. "I understand that, Mycroft. But you can't just start fights."

"He didn't start anything." Sherlock tries, pushing against his brother's arm, but Mycroft just stiffens the limb and holds his brother back more firmly. "They attacked us!"

"Idiots who are jealous of someone smarter than them have to resort to physical force." Mycroft adds, and John sighs wearily.

They've had this problem for a while now. Sherlock and Mycroft are precocious, he knew that when he adopted them. They're far above normal children their age, and Sherlock, especially, with his small size, has been often the target of several attacks. John's talked to people about it, he's talked to their school about it, he's talked to the boys about it-it never seems to help.

The problem is, really, that Mycroft doesn't need to still be Sherlock's protector. He's working so hard to show Mycroft that he can just relax and be a kid, here, and every time something like this happens they end up going backwards. The teen exhausts himself holding back so much emotion, trying to take care of his sibling, and trying to adjust to normalcy all at the same time; John's worried.

The problem also is, of course, that as the months go by Mycroft is turning into a big, strong young man, and could very easily hurt someone badly.

"Come inside." He sighs. "I'll take care of you both."

"It's not his fault." Sherlock is saying desperately, as he's towed along by Mycroft by the good arm. "He was just stopping them from hurting me. He was just doing what he had to. Don't be angry, Watson. Doctor? Please?"

"Sherlock, _stop talking_." Mycroft growls, and John flinches.

"Sit." He tells them both, once they are inside his bedroom. "Stay," He adds, pointing one finger at Sherlock firmly. Sherlock sticks his tongue out impishly, and John pretends to pinch it off, making the young one squeal and fall back. He then begins tending to Sherlock's arm, which looks to have been dislocated but not badly-it slid back into place by itself.

"You boys want to tell me what happened?" He asks, softly, his hands tender on Sherlock's arm but his voice steel.

"We already did." Mycroft's voice has taken on a sullen tone, and John forces himself to take a deep breath._ The boy is struggling,_ he reminds himself, _torn between normalcy and his old life, torn between learning to act like a boy and becoming a man. He's bound to lash out. I'm lucky he's been so quiet for so long. _

"Want to tell me in detail?" He dabs at Sherlock's nose. "Tip your head back, Sherlock, and hold this until I say stop."

"Some boys with too few brains and too much muscle." Mycroft replies, wiping at his bleeding eyebrow. "Thought it would be funny to jump a seven year old boy."

_And crossed his fourteen year old brother instead,_ John thinks, grimly._ His __**big**__ fourteen year old brother. _"Mycroft, you nearly put one boy in the hospital."

"Good."

"_Mycroft Aidan Watson-Holmes_!" _Good Lord, but that's a mouthful...._

"What?" Mycroft is staring pointedly at the wall. "He and two friends tried to hurt Sherlock. What if I hadn't been there?"

"I'm not helpless, you know." Sherlock pipes up softly, voice nasal.

"Don't speak, Sherlock." John whips around. "And hold that still."

"Well I'm _not._" Sherlock obediently puts his head back up. "I wish everyone would stop telling me to be quiet."

He feels a headache coming on. _And I thought it'd be __**easier**__ then having an infant. _

"You'll have your turn to get your say." He assures. "For now, hold still."

"It doesn't matter if you are or not." Mycroft is saying. "They don't have the right to attack a child simply because they don't like that he can out think them."

"No, it doesn't." He puts a salve on the boy's shoulder, then dabs away the blood on the split lip. "Of course, Sherlock has the unfortunate tendency to show off."

"Do not!"

"Sherlock Holmes, _head back_. And yes, you most certainly do."

"They would have put him in the hospital, and not cared."

"Mycroft, the difference is you are far more mature and intelligent then they are. Defending yourself and your brother is admirable and I'm not scolding you for it. But going too far and landing them in medical care is another road altogether. You know better then that. Sherlock, if you don't stop, I will tie you to the bedpost and_ sit on you_."

"But it's not blee-oh."

"Oh indeed." John sighs, forcibly putting Sherlock back into position. "You're lucky it's not broken."

Mycroft has folded his arms around a pillow, head down to his chest. "I didn't mean to." He mutters. "You act like I meant to."

"Mycroft, I know that." He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's not that I think you intentionally hurt another boy. But you are strong, and big and getting bigger. No, don't give me that look, it's the way you're built. But you have to learn what that implies, and you have to learn to control your strength and your temper."

He hates saying it even as he says it. He wants so badly just to let Mycroft be a child, to make up for years of premature adulthood, but the fact of the matter is he has no choice.

Mycroft, now, is silent and sullen, and John lets out another breath. He removes the cloth from Sherlock's nose. "Sherlock, do me a favor and go to your room, please." He says.

"But you said-"

"I know what I said and I meant it. But I'd like to speak to you both separately for a moment."

Neither boy moves, and John closes his eyes, fighting desperately for patience. He understands why the boys have the quirks they have, but it's still difficult, sometimes. "Sherlock, you know I'm not going to hurt him, or send either of you away-just go to your room a moment, for me, please?"

Slowly, the boy slides off the bed, limping a little as he goes to the door. He pauses, hand on the knob.

"Ten minutes, and if Mycroft or I don't come in, you can come back and get us, alright?" John prompts gently.

"Ten minutes exactly?"

"Ten minutes_ exactly_." John extends a hand. "Deal?"

A smaller one grips it, gives it a firm shake. "Deal." Sherlock agrees, and, shooting one last, uncertain look at Mycroft, darts from the room. Across the hall, his door does not close.

John straightens and turns to the bed once more.

"You see?" He says, quietly. "You've frightened him, Mycroft. He thinks I'm going to send you off, or beat you, or some other foolishness."

Mycroft looks up as John's gentle hands dab at a slice in his cheek. "Of course he does." He mutters. "That's how everyone else handles things."

"I'm not everyone else. Give me your hand." He begins to clean the bruised, scrapped knuckles. "Though I imagine it will take far more then two-ish months for your both to realize that."

"Assuming we're still here."

"Ex_cuse_ me?" John's hands stop, and then one goes to tip Mycroft's chin up. "Mycroft, I am not going to just abandon you two. I fought for you, remember? I'll keep fighting for you."

Mycroft looks away, pulls his head from John's grasp. "You say that now."

"_Mycroft_-"

"Don't." Mycroft lifts a hand, closes his eyes. "The only people Sherlock and I can rely on is Sherlock and I. No matter what you say, that won't change."

"Then I won't say it." John says, placing a last bandage on his unofficial son. "I'll just have to prove it, won't I?"

Mycroft blinks, glances in surprise up at Watson. "What?"

"Well, if you don't believe me when I say it..." He smiles calmly, pulling away. "That's the real reason behind this, isn't it?"

"Behind what? I already told you, boys with too little brain and too much mus-"

"What did they say to him, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's jaw clamps shut, and he looks away again. His eyes are closed, his brow down, and he draws his knees to his chest.

Eight minutes.

"Fine." It's a soft exhale. "Fine. Alright." John pushes to his feet, smacks his thigh gently. "If you want to keep this game up longer, that's perfectly fine with me. If you want to keep pretending like it's you two against the whole, wide world, go right ahead and do so. I'm doing everything I can to show you it's not."

He gets two steps towards the door before-

"It's nothing terribly inventive. Or even anything-intelligent- it's stupid, but he's just seven. He's a bloody genius, but he's still just seven." A shaky breath. "He's never been wanted. Not by anyone but me."

_And neither have you_, John does not say, but _you'll never think of yourself for once_. "They told him I was, what, just tolerating you both?"

"Something like that."

Children can be stupidly cruel. "You can't believe- you do believe that. Mycroft, for someone so brilliant you can be a bit foolish."

"It doesn't matter if I do." Comes the whisper. "He doesn't. And he blackened a boy's eyes over it."

John feels the chuckle and doesn't try to stop it. "Prompting you to jump in and eventually break the boy's arm." He runs a hand over his face. "I'll have a talk with him in just a moment about that. As for you...." He leans on the wall. He gets to be the parent, right now, and it's never easy.

"We'll discuss a punishment for fighting, later." He finishes, when he sees the twisted look on Mycroft's face. "At the moment, I think what's more appropriate is this." And he reaches out- and pulls Mycroft to him in a firm hug.

The boy stiffens, at first.

"I don't tolerate you." Watson whispers, "No matter what anyone says, ever. I love you, boys, both of you." He holds Mycroft until he feels some relaxation, and then strokes back the raven hair. "I've loved you since you showed up on my doorstep. And if you don't believe me when I say it, I'll just have to prove it."

"Sherlock thinks that." Comes the tired murmur. "For some reason, he's never doubted it. You shouldn't scold him, you know."

"No? Why?"

" Was defending you." A yawn. "Fought for you because for some reason, my brother loves you." He pulls back, gray eyes staring into hazel. "You fight for us. We fight for you. 'S family, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mycroft, but family doesn't usually go around blacking people's eyes."

"Mafia families do."

"Mycroft _Holmes_..."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **

**To Chewing Gum: Wow. I am thrilled and proud and so pleased that this little series has had such an effect on you! Not only that, but I grinned very broadly and gave a little squeal to know that you're writing once more- I look forward to seeing new stuff from such an awesome author! And I hope whatever personal issues you have clear/have cleared up. I'll keep you in my prayers (if you want it, anyway, please no one take offense to that statement or I might cry -_- haha) and good luck with life. I understand when things get rough, trust me. With a PTSD boyfriend fresh out of the army, I get it. **

**KCS: Gah, I love that episode! One of my favorite Star Trek: TOS episodes ever, possibly my very favorite. But now I have that same mental image- and it's fraggin' adorable. 0.o It also makes me wonder what would happen if Jim ever met the Holmeses and Watson. pictures the bedlam...* **

**RMP: Yay, you reviewed despite everything! *Huggles* Again, I am so so sorry about before, and I'm glad to see you took my advice. I fixed my ellipses! *Points* Although I'm sure there's a million other issues in here, considering I refuse to get a beta. Hopefully nothing too terrible. **

**As for the 'two-ish' months thing; it felt odd to me, too, when I wrote it. But when I read SH, I would swear that the phrase has been used in sentences like 'come around this-time-ish', etc. But I could just be delusional. Also, I _know_ for a fact that in one story Watson uses words like 'weird' in his narrative and that always struck me as being utterly surprising that such a word is used in such an era and setting. So TBH, I don't know if it's appropriate or not, but it feels OK to me. **

**If anyone else finds that it just doesn't fit, please do add your two cents in? **

**Also, the updates should come rather rapidly, yes. ^^ I usually go no more then a week between updates, depending on how long a chapter is. And I, too, got the 'you have power don't abuse it' talk, which is where I got the idea from, truthfully. For the same reasons you did, lol! (I once dumped a boy across a table for smacking my rump, though. Hehe.) **

**Chapter 3: Of Rebellion**

"I promise, doctor, I ain't seen 'em all day." Alfie fidgets uncomfortably under John's stare, but he meets the man's eyes with the steady, level ease of one who isn't lying. "I don't seem 'em much at all, anymore." There is a momentary flash of guilt that lances through John like lightening. It's true, with everything that's been happening the boys haven't had much time to see the boys they used to call friends- still do call friends, he's sure.

"Well, assuming I don't murder them both," He returns, "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson won't mind if you come around later on tonight, for a bit." He runs a hand over his face. He should have known he'd be far too busy to raise a pair of boys, let alone those like Mycroft and Sherlock- intelligent, curious, independent, and needy. At this particular moment, he's wondering what on earth possessed him to try.

Then he remembers Sherlock's beaming grin (currently missing one tooth, one of the last to be lost in preparation for their adult counterparts) and Mycroft's shyer, softer smile. (All teeth included, thank goodness.) And he knows.

"Don't bother tryin' to find them." Alfie suggests, chewing his lower lip. "You won't. I duno why they'd run away."

"I don't think they did, Alfie." John says, slowly. "It's been a very long time since Sherlock and Mycroft have had anyone who cares for them, and even longer since anyone has ever enforced a certain kind of behavior. I think they're just.....seeing how far they can push."

Alfie blinks up at him, then shrugs. "Still seems like a dumb thing t' do, when you got what they got." He informs John bluntly. "An' if you don't burn their ears for it, I will." He gives a firm nod that makes John fight not to laugh.

"I appreciate it, Alfie." He replies, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders. "In fact, why don't you stay here for when they get back? I think they need someone besides myself to remind them how foolish they're behaving."

Alfie lights up at being considered part of the Family Meeting, then his glow fades. "But- I mean, I shouldn't-"

"Yes, you should." John smiles, guiding the boy to the sitting room. "And if they're not back by tonight, I'll need someone to go fetch them..."

* * *

They're back by that night. Barely, but they are, easing into the house on nearly-silent little feet. Alfie is asleep, curled in a chair by the fire; John is very much awake, and torn between concern and anger.

They're not stupid. There is no childish whispering, giggles, or obvious noises; they are quiet as a pair of thieves. If he hasn't been sitting up, waiting, they possibly would have gotten in clean and free. As it is, _he _is, and he sets his book down, closes his eyes, and takes one, two deep breaths.

Calm. He has to be calm. Getting angry with them will be counter productive, if not terrify them into total regression.

The stairs creak softly as two sets of little bodies climb them. Alfie's eyes open a crack, and he yawns blearily. "They home?"

"They're home." He murmurs. Alfie flinches, and John realizes that his fight for calm has left him sounding coldly angry.

"They're in big trouble." Alfie murmurs, and his righteousness anger of before has muted considerably.

"They are." John agrees darkly, feeling real anger for possibly the first time since he's taken in the boys. "Alfie, stay here until I call you."

Alfie frowns, sliding half out of the chair. "Y're not gonna do somethin' to them, are you?"

"Alfie. You know me better then that."

Alfie nods, once, and slides back onto his chair. John, for his part, gently closes the door behind him, and turns to face two sets of_ uh-oh _eyes.

"Mycroft. Sherlock." He says in a very cool, low voice. "Room. _Now._"

Mycroft flinches slightly, gripping Sherlock firmly by the nape of the neck. John doesn't miss the way the younger brother steps towards the older, and sighs.

_Will they ever trust, really, fully? _

He follows them into the bedroom, closing the door yet again, and watches as the boys sit on the bed. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes one deep breath, two.

"Where have you been?" He manages, after a moment.

"Why does it matter?" Returns Mycroft, and John's entire body seizes with the desire to snap at the boy.

"Because you both vanished all day, you both are two young boys under my care, and neither one of thought it prudent to let anyone know if you were alive or dead." He manages without yelling, feeling the stress headache behind his eyes. "Mycroft, you are the older brother, it is your responsibility to set a better example then this to Sherlock-"

"I don't need an example." Sherlock snaps, but he doesn't move from Mycroft's side. "It was my idea-"

"I don't care who's _idea_ it was. Mycroft, there is no excuse for not, at least, _at least_, leaving me a note-" He stops himself, verging dangerously on real anger. Anger won't help, here. "You two aren't alone any longer." He manages, tightly. "And there are people who _worry for you _when you simply disappear!"

"We can take care of ourselves." Mycroft snarls, "we have so far."

"Oh, really." The temper boils over, and the words are out before he can pull them back. "Is that what you're doing, then, Mycroft? Teaching your baby brother that he can just do as he pleases with no repercussions? Teaching him that he can't trust anyone but you? Is that taking care of him, Mycroft?"

"I'm making sure he doesn't forget how to handle himself out there!" The boy is on his feet, and Sherlock, forgotten on the bed, nearly hits the floor.

"_How many times _do I have to tell you that I'm not just going to suddenly stop caring!" He explodes right back, throwing his hands up. "Mycroft, I have shown you and told you and fought for you, and nothing I do convinces you. If you want to leave-"_ Stop. Stop now, before you cross that line. You are an adult, John, he isn't. _

"..." Mycroft snaps his jaw shut, backs away a single step. From the bed, Sherlock suddanly snaps upright.

"Stop it! It was my idea! Mycroft came out to make sure I was alright, that's all! He didn't take me anywhere, he didn't even know I was leaving! I didn't want to be in this _stupid house_ any more! All we ever do is go to school and come back here and laze around all day, and then go to school and come back, and even when we see Alfie-it's not the same. I feel like-like- I feel itchy, all over. I had to get out! I didn't mean to scare you, and I wasn't running away! So just- stop fighting!" He turns, then- and flees from the room, the door slamming behind him.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft whirls, darts after his brother, and for the second time, the door slams.

John groans.

Alfie stays the night, for safety's sake, but is sent home the next morning without ever seeing his friends.

* * *

Breakfast is eaten alone, because even Mrs. Hudson is disappointed in his momentary lapse. He can't really blame her- his first test as a parent, and he fails miserably. In fact, breakfast is barely eaten; his appetite is somewhat lacking. He chokes down food and is dressed and on his way out the door- life goes on, no matter how much you'd like it to pause, and he does have patients to see to- when Sherlock comes slinking down the stairs.

He watches the boy, who sticks to the corners of the room and approaches like a skittish deer, in fits and starts, until he's right before John. He's fidgeting and shifting and John simply stands, and waits. But it's the adult who breaks the silence first.

"Sherlock," He says, very gently, "I'm very sorry that I didn't take into consideration your being used to some....freedom. I never intended to constrain you so much that you felt trapped here."

"I don't." Comes the quiet whisper. "And I shouldn't have said I did. I don't know why I felt so crazy. I just did. I did before, too,when we were alone. I don't _know_ why." The last comes out so plaintive, so aching, that John feels any lingering anger melt away. "Sometimes, I just-I have to do something. I don't know." He says, a third time, and the doctor in John recognizes the body language of frustration and anger as the boy so intelligent and clever, fights for a way to express something he himself doesn't fully understand. "It's not- I don't feel-trapped- I just- have to-I-"

"Don't know." John choruses, laughing softly. "Sherlock, _Sherlock_, it's okay." He takes a knee, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is going to happen. We're going to have mistakes, and misunderstandings, and arguments. It doesn't mean I care for you any less, no matter if I get angry, and it doesn't ever mean you have to be afraid, or worried about your place here, alright?"

Sherlock nods, and lets John stroke a hand over his cheek. "Now." He says, gently, taking a breath. "Next time you decide you're going a bit stir-crazy, I'm not asking you to ignore it. Just let me know where you're going, or at the least that you've left, and be back at a decent hour. And for heaven's sake, Sherlock, don't go to stupidly far. Can you at least stick to those rules?"

"I can do that, I think." A weak smile is offered. John pushes to his feet.

"Thank you." He says. "Do you know where your brother's gone?"

"He won't come out of his room." Sherlock's smile fades. "He doesn't want to leave. He never did. He really didn't mean to frighten you, either. But he's really angry that you just assumed-"

"I know what he's angry about." John cuts him off. "Mycroft and I need to talk, too. And we will. For now, though, I have patients to see and you, young man, have your own affairs that need minding."

He doesn't see Mycroft all day or most of the night. He keeps waiting for the boy to approach him, but when dinner comes and goes and Mycroft doesn't so much as make an appearance, his anger turns into concern.

Mycroft does not miss meals.

After Sherlock is handed off to Mrs. Hudson, he heads up to the boy's room. He knocks on the door, doesn't get an answer, and feels concern turn into fear.

"Mycroft!" He calls, pushing at the door. It opens under his push, and his fear ebbs slightly when he sees the older boy, curled under the covers on the bed. He feels silly, after a moment- as if Mycroft would ever leave without Sherlock._ Ever. _

The boy turns and faces him, eyes wide for a moment, then straightens up. "What?" He asks, but it isn't sullen; it's aching and hurt and so vulnerable. John wants nothing more then to take the boy in his arms and whisper reassurances in his ear. But at the moment, that needs to come second.

"Don't _what_ me." He say, firmly, leaning on the wall. "Mycroft, come here."

Mycroft pushes the covers away and stands, arms folded across his chest and head bowed. He obediently comes, though, and stops just in front of John.

"You had no right to do what you did," John says, slowly, "without at the least informing someone of where you were both going. On the other hand, you did well trying to protect your brother. And I know thats what you were trying to do." He takes another breath, trying to stay calm. "I shouldn't have blown up at you the way I did- it was unfair."

Mycroft turns his head away, takes in a shallow breath and shrugs, once. "Didn't give you a reason to think anything else, I suppose."

"I should have asked before just jumping to conclusions." He says, cutting the teen off. "And the way I behaved was undeniably abhorrent. I don't _want_ you to go anywhere, Mycroft."

"I know. I mean, I do- know. But sometimes, it's-" He stops, shakes his head. "It's easy to think it, and hard to remember it, I guess."

John nods. "I can understand that." He allows. "But testing it and pushing me farther and farther isn't the way to reassure yourself. You can't keep filling the balloon and not expect it to pop at some time or another."

Mycroft looks mildly abashed and retreats a step; Watson grabs him by the shoulders and makes him stop. "Mycroft," He says, gently, "All you're doing is hurting all of us. I just want you both to be happy. And I_ know_ you want him to be happy. Now. I've had a talk with Sherlock about his restlessness-"

"He's always been like that. If you coup him up for too long, he gets a bit mad-can't stay still, can't focus on anything."

John nods. In a way, it's not surprising; a child with that intellect probably constantly needs some kind of stimuli. Sherlock, even at this age, seems far less steady and stable then his brother, and it's concerning. Mycroft, he thinks, could spend his whole childhood on the streets and still live a relatively normal existence, pulling himself out of the dredges. Sherlock is needier, though, and seems the type who would end up trapped just where he was, without a helping hand.

"We're talked about it, and he's agreed to remember to at least not go too far and to leave some kind of note to let me know he-or you both- are going. I'm not here to keep you trapped or own you, Mycroft."

Mycroft shrugs yet again, and John kneels much the way he did for Sherlock. "Mycroft." He pushes, gently, and the teen glances away. "Mycroft, here, look at me. Look at me. Please?" He adds, softly, when the first two times don't work. The words jolts through the boy like lightening, and he slowly brings his gray eyes back to John's.

"In just a few weeks," He says, "you will be confronting the men who murdered your father and chased you boys for so long for the final time. Sherlock will turn to you for support." One hand strokes Mycroft's raven hair. "And for guidance. You're older, wiser, a steading presence in his life. You need to take that very seriously, Mycroft. What you say, what you do, he'll take to heart. Therefore, I need you to think long and hard on this situation. I need you to decide if you can start letting yourself trust me. And then, I need you to realize that you can turn to me for support and guidance, just as he will to you. And I need you to let him go enough to allow him to see that you are _not_ the only pillar in his life. He needs to learn that. You need to learn that you don't always have to be." He straightens, hand still on Mycroft's shoulder.

"Now for the unpleasent part of my job." He says, sternly but gently. "For the next week, you will go from here to school and back to here." He says, quietly. "Both of you. You will not see Alfie, you will not be outside wandering about or playing, and in fact, aside from meals, you will not leave your bedroom. I'm not going to be cruel enough to separate you two, and so I'm trusting you both to understand that you are being _punished_, and this is not a game."

Mycroft looks up at him, stares up at him, for the longest time in utter silence. "You're punishing us."

"I am, legally, your parent now. This is hardly the first time, Mycroft." _Far from it, in fact._ He thinks, with a wry half smirk.

"No. I know. It's just that you're not angry." He stops. "You never are, when you scold us."

John feels his heart ache in his chest. No child should ever be used to receiving punishment just because an adult was having a grown-up version of a tantrum.

"I am angry." He says, quietly, "or I was. But I'm punishing you because you frightened me, Mycroft, and because what you did was wrong, and there must be a repercussion. I would hardly be a good father if there wasn't." He offers a gentle smile when Mycroft does not flinch at the term.

It broadens to a grin when, as he's leaving, Mycroft's lightly casual voice comes from behind him.

"No," it says, "you wouldn't. But you are."

And the door clicks shut.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Of Love

"Sherlock Watson-Holmes. I am not in the least surprised, and that worries me."

Sherlock sniffles, looking up with wet gray eyes from a tear-streaked little face. He's cradling his right arm and Mycroft is wrapped around him like some over sized blanket.

"He fell." Was all Mycroft said, when he'd come home and found them huddled in the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson fussing over them and a cast on Sherlock's wrist.

"Fell." Watson removed his coat, his hat, took a breath, watching as Sherlock ducked behind Mycroft. There was a flash of guilt as he realized that the boy expects anger. "What, exactly, did he fall_ from_?"

"The banister." Mrs Hudson speaks up, trying to get the boys to sit. "He decided he could fly."

"I didn't think I could fly!" Sherlock pipes up, no longer crying, but sniffling. "I meant to land on the pillows."

Mycroft groans. John sighs.

"Sherlock, why were you leaping off our stairs?"

"Alfie did it." Mycroft says, carefully, not looking at John. "Mrs. Hudson and I caught them half-way through it, after Alfie had already jumped, and before we could grab them Sherlock had jumped."

"And gone cleanly over the pillows." Mrs. Hudson picks up. "Scared the wits out of all three of us."

"I'm sure it scared him, too." John says, sitting to look at Sherlock. "Is Alfie gone?"

"He is." Mrs. Hudson says, "He was very upset that Sherlock had gotten hurt."

"We'll take care of that tomorrow." He says. "It's not Alfie's fault, as foolish an idea as it was. Children will be..." He let out another sigh, lips thin. "It's not your fault, either, Mycroft. You didn't know they were up to flying lessons until they'd gone through with the plans."

Mycroft offers a slightly sheepish grin. "I should have been watching them-"

"No, you can't watch two young boys every minute." Mrs. Hudson scolds, "not even I can manage that feat. They're going to do things they shouldn't eventually." She musses Sherlock's hair, fondly, and the boy stops hiding long enough to duck away and pout at her. Mycroft scoops up his impish little brother, letting Sherlock cuddle-and there is no other word for it, even though John thinks Mycroft might cut off his own foot before admitting it- into his chest.

"Alright." John says, and reaches out for Sherlock-who instantly flinches away, pressing his face harder into Mycroft's chest. Mycroft strokes the back of his head, but John is mildly relived to see that the hold, while protective, is not possesive. He looks as surprised as John feels, even as he rubs his little brother's back, eyes on the dark head. "Sherlock?" He asks, gently, not trying to disengage his baby brother, but he doesn't return the fiercely tight hold. "It's only Doctor Watson, now, you're alright."

But Sherlock shakes his head and presses closer to Mycroft, eyes closed. Mycroft finally returns the hold, glancing helplessly up at Watson.

"Sherlock," John tries, very softly, "I'm not angry with you."

Sherlock peeks one eye open only long enough to push closer to Mycroft. John looks at Mrs. Hudson, who looks back in confusion.

"He's hurt and probably worn out, after such a dramatic day." John says at last, looking back at the boys again. "If he doesn't want me to touch him now, I won't. That's perfectly fine." He says, making his voice gentle and directing the words more to Sherlock. "So long as he remembers that I am not angry and there will not be a punishment; it seems the lesson taught itself, today. Mycroft, take him to your room, and let him get a little rest. I think it would be best if you stay indoors for the next day at least, and do try to keep your feet on the floor." He adds with a small smile. Sherlock doesn't return it, and he feels concern spike in his heart.

* * *

Tiny feet making tiny footsteps. John's eyes slide open as his door creaks, and he blinks fuzzily in the semi-darkness of his room, seeing the silhouette of Sherlock, standing uncertainly in the doorway.

"Sherlock?" He murmurs, sleep-thick and slurring. He yawns, and the small figure freezes. "No, it's alright, my boy, come in."

The door shuts, and Sherlock edges closer to the bed, in increments. Side step, pause; edge closer, stop.

Like he's terrified John is going to bite. He doesn't know exactly how Mycroft and Sherlock grew up, but he's sure it wasn't in an affectionate- or healthy- environs, and now, seeing the hesitancy, he wonders if the boys were possibly mentally or physically abused.

"Sherlock." He says again, more assertive now. "Do you need something?"

The tiny form is beside his bed now, and one hand-the good one- slowly, slowly reaches out to rest on the bed cloths. John moves over, and instantly Sherlock climbs up, tiny little body pressing into John's chest. John wraps an arm around him, presses a kiss to the thick, dark hair.

"Talk to me, lad." He murmurs, and Sherlock sniffles, once.

"You're really not angry with me?"

"Oh, Sherlock. No." He rubs the slender back, feeling the boy tremble. "No. You did what all young boys do; and you got hurt, as all young boys are prone to. It wouldn't be very fair of me to be angry at you for doing something I tried as a child, would it?"

"....You jumped off a banister?"

"A roof, actually, into a hay pile."

"_You _jumped off a _roof_?"

"I did indeed. My older brother dared me to try."

"You have an older brother?"

The boy is starting to sound like a parrot. John grins.

"Yes, sir, I do. His name is Andrew."

"Why don't you ever mention him? Or let us see him?"

"Andrew lives very far from here." John begins, slowly, choosing his words with care. "And he and I-we don't speak, Sherlock."

Big, storm cloud eyes staring up at him in the dark that he's begun to adjust to, just able to make out the steel color. "I can't ever imagine not speaking to Mycroft for more then a day. Or never seeing him again." He says, slowly, biting his lip. "No matter how angry we were at one another."

"That's because you and your brother are very close." John says, leaning back against the headboard. "And lucky for it. But not everyone is so lucky. Andrew is angry about a great deal of things, and I...well, I am hurt from some of the things he has said and done. I'm not angry so much as I am...very sad."

Sherlock studies him carefully, then reaches up one small hand to touch the side of John's face. Those gray eyes stare hard into his own with intensity no child should ever know, the hand not moving. "You have a lot of that." He says at last, not looking away. "Sadness."

John's eyes widen, then soften. "It's nothing for you to worry over, Sherlock. Besides. You and Mycroft have made me very_ happy_."

Sherlock is still watching him, as if trying to see to his very core. "You worry over us." He says. "Why can't we be concerned for you?"

He feels his heart swell with love and pride at Sherlock's innocent question. "Because I am the adult and you are not." He taps Sherlock's sharp nose with a finger, playfully, and the boy wrinkles it in reaction.

"Mycroft worries over me, and he's not an adult."

"Yes, but he had to act like one. Besides, big brothers usually worry for their little ones."

"I'm not little!"

".....I hate to inform you, Sherlock, but you rather are." He laughs softly as Sherlock pouts. "Don't worry. You'll grow, and you and Mycroft will both probably stand taller then me, in the end. But you'll still be his little brother, no matter how old or tall you are. And you'll still be my boy."

"So you both can worry for me, but I can't worry for you?"

A sigh. "Sherlock, I'm not saying you _can't_. But you don't _have_ to."

"But you do everything for us and you don't have to. You always say it's because you _want _to."

"It is."

"Then, same for me." Sherlock nods firmly, in a way that suggested he is taking no arguments. "I worry about you because I want to. Because I-" He stops, suddenly, eyes widening, and John grins impishly.

"You...what?"

"...care about you." Comes the whispered reply and fierce blush. John chuckles once more, leaning his forehead together with Sherlock's.

"I know you do." He says gently. "But I promise you, I'm happier right now, because of you boys, then I've been in a long time. There's nothing to worry about. How does your wrist feel?"

Sherlock blinked his big, dark eyes, peering down at the cast. "Doesn't hurt." He mumbles softly, looking away. "I'm sorry."

"I've already said I'm not angry. Why were-_are_- you so worried?" He asks, gently, touching his fingers to the boy's cheek.

"'Children should be seen and not heard.'"

"Well, who told you _that _bunch of nonsense?"

"Our father."

John falls silent for a moment. He doesn't know much about Sherlock and Mycroft's home lives; it's difficult to get them to speak of anything beyond the assault on their family and subsequent kidnapping attempts. He's assumed it hadn't been a pleasant home to grow up in, and according to Mycroft they'd both spent most of their youth primarily at a boarding school, so affection was something scarce to both of them but for from each other. This is a delicate subject he's not well versed in, and something flutters in his chest. He wants to do this right.

"Well, quite frankly, I think you two have already broken that rule a few dozen times since coming here." He says, making sure his voice is teasing and noticeably playful. "Even if it's what I wanted, which it isn't."

"But-"

"But nothing. Have I ever suggested such a thing?"

"No." Sherlock whispers, "We never did anything like this, though."

"Sherlock, the only reason I don't want you doing stunts like this is because of this." He taps the cast, very gently. "Next time it might not be just your wrist, you little dare-devil. But I am proud that you are so fearless, and so adventurous. But- you must learn to temper it with the intelligence you have, too, Sherlock. Surely you understood how foolish that was."

A mournful little nod is given. "I'm sorry, Jo-Wat-"

"John is fine." Said around quiet laughter. "Although I like it when you call me Watson, Sherlock. Very mature of you."

"Watson." Sherlock yawns, then lays, curling up against John's chest and laying his head down. "Wanna stay here."

"Want you to." John replies, smiling and sliding down on the bed. "Will Mycroft be alright alone?"

"He can come in if not. He knows."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Of Family**

He's exhausted.

Sherlock seemed to know instantly that something was wrong, and under other circumstances John might have felt guilt for the way the boy began to keep to the shadows and out of the way. He's snarled at Mycroft once already today, despite himself, when the boy dropped and broke a cup of tea. He hadn't meant to snap at the boy- but he had warned them, both, more then once to stop rough housing. He'd known, the second time they'd come pounding down the stairs, that they were going to break something; he'd sensed it, with the uncanny ease of any parent, adopted or no.

And then the crash of something shattering, and he'd snarled up at Mycroft that he'd_ told_ him to stop roughhousing, and that it would happen, and now there was a stain on the carpet and shards of glass and_ Sherlock, don't move, you'll tear yourself open_-

He regretted it after he'd calmed down. Of course he had; he always does. People- Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, many people- have told him that loosing his temper is natural and expected and human, but when he thinks of all the boys have been through none of what they say helps. The last thing his boys need is to be shouted at, or made to feel threatened.

But they'd all be suck inside with the dismal weather for about a week, and he was feeling every bit as cooped up as his boys. His leg and shoulder ached with the turn in the weather, and when he'd had his bad leg buckle on the steps not five feet from Sherlock and nearly scared the boy half to death-and embarrassed himself witless- it had only added to his bad mood.

He's secreted himself in the sitting room, in a chair, by the fire, with a paper and is trying desperately to take joy, not annoyance, from the hushed sound of children squealing across the hall. He should be happy to hear them behaving like children should- he should be pleased that they're learning how to just play, just _be_.

But good Lord, he hurts.

His bad leg is stretched out before him, propped up, and twinging in a way that's a loud and clear warning that it's going to start cramping if he doesn't watch it. He tries to ignore it, pushes it to the back of his mind, but that's nearly impossible when he can't so much as risk standing-

_Crash!_

He jumps at the sound of something shattering, uses his cane to haul himself upright and limps-nearly stumbles- to the door.

"Mycroft-and-Sherlock-Watson-Holmes! What did you break?"

No answer.

"Mycroft!"

Still nothing. He feels anger starting dangerously at the base of his spine, coiling in his stomach. He doesn't want to have to take those stairs, not right now. He'd told them and told them to settle down, or take it outside if they wanted to brave the rain-

"Sherlock William, get up here by the time I get to five or so _help_ me-"

Footsteps on the stairs, but too heavy and slow to be Sherlock. Mycroft doesn't move as fast as Sherlock- he's not slow, but has always been_ more _slow, more deliberate in his movements.

A moment later, the dark head pops around the corner, and Mycroft sheepishly appears, holding the remains of something in his hands.

"It was an accident." He murmurs, extending what he's holding. "He didn't mean to."

John accepts the tatters remains of the object, feeling his hands start to shake. He recognizes exactly what he's holding- a framed portrait of Mary. Or it_ was_ a framed portrait of Mary- now, though, it's all but destroyed.

"Oh." He breaths, softly, catching the edge of his thumb on a shard of glass. Blood wells out on the torn, wrinkled image below. The pain in his leg is gone. The pain in his shoulder is gone. Even the fresh cut feels a thousand miles away. All there is is numb, cold aching in his chest.

Mycroft is backing away. He's distantly aware of it, and when he looks up, Mycroft freezes like a deer caught in a hunter's sights.

"How did this happen?" He asks, and if he'd heard his own voice, he probably would have sent Mycroft away right there, closed the door, and made himself calm down before doing anything else.

"He fell off a chair." Mycroft says. "It cut him-"

"Of course it did, it's _glass_." He snaps. "Is he alright?"

"...Fine. I think he's-"

"How many times today did I tell both of you to_ calm down_?"

"A few-"

"A few. Did I not say, over and over again, that you were going to get hurt or break something?"

"He just fell-"

"You don't _just fall_, Mycroft. You have to be _doing_ something to fall."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I know it was an important picture to you." The boy tries. "So does he. He didn't _mean_ to."

He needs to calm down. He needs to calm down, now, or he's going to yell and then things are just going to deteriorate from there.

"Where's Sherlock?" He asks, and when he looks up, Mycroft is looking back with jaw set and eyes flashing defiance.

"Mycroft, I asked you a_ question_." His voice raises dangerously, and the moment, the _second_ he realizes it, the older boy turns and flees down the stairs.

_Flees,_ not just runs. He hears Mrs. Hudson's confused voice from below, and Mycroft on the verge of babbling. She's trying to calm the boy down, and failing, and a minute later he hears; "Doctor Watson?" from the landlady.

He closes the door on her voice. He leans on it, a moment, breathing hard and heavy. It was an accident. An accident.

He runs a hand over his brow. Just an accident. Just a portrait._ Just a **portrait**, for heaven's sake, why are you so affected, man? _

A picture could make memory no more clear. A picture could not bring back to life that which he held so close.

It was only a portrait.

_What would she say,_ he wonders, _if she could see you acting like that towards two children? _

_John Watson, you massive brute. You've frightened them! _He imagines, with a wry smile, her sounding so angry but not really being. The smile fades when he realizes that he can imagine the words, the expression on her delicate face, but he can't hear her voice in his head, anymore. It's like a dream he only just remembers.

The pain in his leg in nothing compared to what stabs through his chest.

* * *

When they broke the picture, Sherlock had scampered away like a frightened mouse. Instantly, without so much as waiting for Mycroft to move or speak; he'd stared at the shattered remains with a bleeding arm and gray eyes wide with realization, and _flown_.

And then Watson had started yelling.

Mycroft froze, torn like any wild animal between flee and defend; body quivering, gaze inward.

_He won't hurt you_, a small voice in the back of his head had whispered._ He never has, has he? _

But it's so hard- so _hard _to go against all that instinct from years of protecting and defending has taught him and just trust an adult.

Or anyone.

And he sounded more angry then Mycroft had ever heard him, and he was left holding the shattered remains of a very important portrait. And how hard is it to convince oneself that one is in no danger under such a circumstance?

In the end, he thinks he got off lightly. He sits in a chair, in 'his' bedroom (and there is always that tiny voice, that voice that whispers_ for how much longer, Mycroft? How long until he throws you both out, just like every one else?) _and rests his chin on his knees, one bleeding hand clasped in the other because he'd cut himself cleaning up the glass.

John hadn't been angry. He'd been sad, and hurt, and looked as broken as that picture. He it was their fault. For not listening. For not being able to behave like mature, intelligent young men.

He knows what it's like to loose someone you care for. They'd never been close to their parents, exactly, but they'd still_ loved _them, and he knows what it feels like to suddenly no quite be able to remember someone's voice all the time, or their face.

He knows how frightening that is, to feel like you're loosing them for real. For good. If he feels that way about his parents, he can only imagine what it must be like when you lost someone you really loved, really cared for- as if loosing Sherlock. The thought makes a shudder race up his spine.

"Mycroft." The word is softer now, his name a plea instead of a demand, and the teen glances up in surprise. John is just outside his door, leaning on the heavy wood. He can picture the man, good shoulder pressed up to the entrance, leaning on his steady leg. Probably with picture tucked in hands or pocket, face drawn and white with pain, exhaustion making dark circles under his eyes,_ your fault, Mycroft, you and Sherlock's, can't you just keep him on a leash-_

"Come in." He says, instead of voicing any of it. The door opens, and John steps in, holding the picture, looking just as Mycroft imagined. The teenager flinches, slightly, pulls his legs up higher, tenses, waiting. Any minute now. Any minute, it would come, as the man, the _threat_, looms closer and closer, until-

-a gentle hand lands on his shoulder. He flinches instinctively, but it doesn't pull away.

"You've hurt yourself." Come the soft, gentle words. "Oh, good Lord, Mycroft, you've slit your palm open neat as you can. Here, boy, let me see."

"It's alright." He answers, surprised, but holds his palm out anyway. "It's not bad."

"No, it's not." John lowers himself to a crouch with a wince, the effort obvious, and Mycroft wants to stop him but can't really pull his thoughts together. _You're supposed to be angry_, he wants to say. But John is dabbing away the blood tenderly, cleaning out the cut with soft, loving father-doctor's hands, and Mycroft isn't completely aware of when he starts to shake, but the hand that was on his shoulder before goes there again, now.

"Mycroft. It's alright." John says. "I'm so sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn't have. Forgive me?"

_You're supposed to be angry._

The hand on his shoulder is so gentle, and the eyes looking into his are so loving, and all he can do is nod, once, not trusting his voice. John keeps looking at him, though, and suddenly pulls him into an embrace.

It's only the second time in his life that an adult has ever hugged him. He's not sure how to reciprocate- the only person he's ever hugged has been Sherlock, and then it's always been more of a protective huddle- but when it goes on and on he eventually brings his own arms up. The moment he does the hug tightens, and suddenly it's warm and comfortable, and he feels safe and secure, and John's stroking his hair and clinging and maybe, just maybe, an adult needs comforting once in a while, too. So shocking is the realization that he goes absolutely still until John lets go.

The adult pulls back, tips his head slightly and lifts Mycroft's chin. "Are you alright?" He asks, softly, searching the boy's face. And the answer is resoundingly_ no_, absolutely not, in no way is he 'okay', but he can't say _that_, either. He's confused and upset and frightened and hurt, and it is all too easy to whisper a "I'm fine," And dart away from the room, from John, but not from the guilt.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: OK, so it's been _forever _since I updated, and I'm REALLY sorry, guys. Here's a-rather short- update for ya'll, a continuation of chapter five. This should stretch two or three more chapters, and is probably going to end the story...or come close to it. Thanks all for sticking with me so far, and for being such awesome reviewers!

**Chapter 5 (part 2)**

Gray eyes peered down at him from the rooftop, small arms huddled around his waist.

"I don't want to."

"I know you don't _want_ to, Sherlock, but you _have_ to."

Identical gray eyes peering up, concerned and irritated all at once. "You're going to get hurt."

"I'm fine. I got up here, didn't I?

A sigh. "You _can't_ stay up there forever."

"Can so."

"Can _not_."

"Can so!"

"Can-Sherlock!"

The younger boy laughed mischievously, but it didn't completely ban the darkness from his eyes. "Stop being ridicules. He's not angry, you know."

"He _should_ be."

Mycroft closes his eyes, pushing down the surge of emotion. "But he's not. And he's really concerned because he can't find you. So if you don't come down, I'm going to go get him."

"No!" Sherlock lurches so violently that for one terrifying moment Mycroft thinks he's going off. He lunges forward, but the boy catches himself and recovers. "Mycroft, no, don't. He'll go mad if he sees me up here."

"_I'm_ going mad. You're going to _kill_ yourself."

"I'm fine."

Mycroft leans against the wall, with his brother above him, and tries to collect his thoughts. "Sherlock, he's going to ask me where you are."

"Don't tell him! Mycroft, you can't-"

"He's not _angry_."

Sherlock is silent in reply, and Mycroft groans, pushing off the wall. "That's it."

"Mycroft-"

Mycroft is no longer listening. Sherlock can't stay up there, and even if he insists on it, he can't stay up there alone. His instincts are screaming at him to go find John, to bring back the adult and have him speak to Sherlock the way he spoke to Mycroft. For them to _talk_, reasonably and rationally. But the part of him that is used to it being Sherlock and Mycroft against ever and anyone else has had more time to grow, to cultivate, and he can't just ignore it because of a hug and some gentle words.

He wonders if it will _ever_ go away, that voice whispering _you are not, you can not, you will never be, don't trust, don't hope, don't feel_. He doesn't want it anymore; he hates it. He's _tired_ of it. He's _tired_ of thinking and acting and feeling like the adult he won't be for years yet.

He sighs heavily and braces a foot on the truck of the nearby tree Sherlock used to climb up, snarling to himself the entire time. He doesn't want to climb up here. He doesn't want to have to camp out with his brother until he can convence him to climb down. He doesn't _want_-

He must have slipped.

He's not sure, not even days later, what happened exactly. He's only aware that he hears Sherlock yelp, desperately- "_Mycroft!" _And feeling himself tumble backwards.

* * *

When he wakes up, he's in bed, and there is soft bandaging around his skull. He's not in his room; he's in John's. He knows that instantly. There's a soft voice to his left, talking softly- reading, he realizes, reading to him in a soft, low tone. He groans and stirs, and the second he does the voice stops and there is a cool hand on his forehead.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, lad, can you hear me?"

He opens his eyes, slowly- the light _hurts_- and it takes a moment before he can focus on John's face.

"…John?"

There is a deep sigh of relief, and John slumps next to the bed as if the strength in his legs has just…vanished. He presses a hand into his face, and then, suddenly, Mycroft is being dragged into a tight, fierce hug. It's nothing like the hug of before- he has no chance to try to pull away, and it's not at all gentle. Arms pinned to his sides, world spinning dizzily, Mycroft closes his eyes and soaks up the warmth and familiar smell of his adopted father.

"Oh, thank God." He whispers, and it's not a swear. "Thank you, God."

The shaking panic in John's voice makes Mycroft's eyes open again, and he squirms, struggling to be free. John lets him down, laying him back, and looks hard into Mycroft's eyes.

"Mycroft," He says, softly, brushing back his hair. "What is your brother's name?"

Cold realization falls in Mycroft's stomach as he understands why John was so frightened. "Sherlock," He replies, and speaking hurts, but the look on John's face makes it worth it. "Sherlock…is he-?"

"He's fine." John's face clouds over with some anger, now, darkening his expression. "He climbed down like a spider monkey after you fell and came racing to find me."

"He was-he didn't mean-" Mycroft closes his eyes and leans back into the pillow as his head throbs balefully.

"Mycroft, you don't need to defend your brother." John's voice is stiff and cold, and the tone makes him blink in surprise. "He's been confined to your bedroom until I'm ready to speak with him, but that's all the punishment he's going to get. Now, if I go in there and he's _not_-"

"He wouldn't run without me." The words slip out unbidden, and suddenly, _suddenly_, John's worried, affectionate expression becomes something so tired, so _exhausted_, that it hurts to see.

"I would have thought I've given you both many reasons to not run anymore." He says, and his voice- oh, his voice. He sounds bone-weary, and hurt, sad and confused. Adults should not sound like that. Guilt stabs Mycroft in the chest like an arrow; John is trying so hard, and every time they get close something happens and they slide and slide and _slide_ back down.

_We're trying, too,_ he wants to say. _It's hard. We're not used to trusting._

_We don't know how to do this. _

_**I**__ don't know how to do this. _

John has turned away, going through his bag, the big, black medical kit that they almost never see him without. "Here. Let me give you something for the pain." His voice is still cool, which means he's still hurt.

Anger he can deal with. Hurt, he doesn't understand.

"What happened?" He asks, tentatively. "After I fell?"

John straightens medication in hand, and turns his gaze to the boy. "Sherlock came to get me; he thought you were dead. You hit your head on a rock when you fell and head wounds always bleed badly. We've discovered that together already, I believe. But it was a serious wound, and you've been in and out of consciousness for the past two weeks. This is first time you've known who I am, Mycroft."

Mycroft fiddles with the blanket, head thrumming, feeling nauseous. "I'm sorry." He whispers.

John looks up, that dark look still on his face; then it clears and he just looks tired again.

"No, Mycroft. I should be apologizing to you. It was my…inability to handle the situation correctly that caused this to escalate to this point." He says quietly. "And nearly caused you to be very seriously- or rather, even more so-hurt."

He helps Mycroft with the medication, and then pulls the blankets up around his chin. "Rest. You're out of the woods, but you're not going to be fully recovered for a while yet."

No gentle touch, no pat on the arm; John just stands and turns out the lights, and he's halfway to the door before Mycroft finds the courage to speak up.

"Stay? My head…I don't think-I can sleep."

John pauses, recognizes the attempt, and closes the door softly, heading back to the bed. He sits in the chair again, picks up the book, and resumes reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 5 (part 3)**

Sherlock has rarely ever felt guilty. He does what he does, and sometimes there are bad consequences, but he doesn't dwell on it when it happens. But after everything that has happened- and he has caused Mycroft to be so badly hurt, and John to be so upset- and the guilt won't leave him be.

He climbs out of his bed and wanders down the hall to the bedroom where his brother is asleep. The door is not locked, of course, and he enters easily, looking around.

John is asleep in a chair, there. His head is bowed to his chest and in one limp hand dangles a book. He obviously fell asleep reading to his older son, who is curled into a little ball on the bed.

He enters, gripping the edge of the bed in one small fist, and reaches out to touch Mycroft's shoulder. His older brother stirs slightly and turns his back to Sherlock, nestling further into exhausted sleep.

"Don't wake him up."

The voice makes him jump, and he nearly lands on the bed, but John's hand gently holds him down by one shoulder.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was. I've trained myself to wake up at the pitter-patter of Sherlock feet."

Sherlock blushes and turns around to look up at the man who has called himself their father for so long now, who looks haggard and run ragged.

And he blurts.

"I'm really sorry," He hears himself rambling. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to get him hurt-"

"Sherlock-"

"And I didn't mean to hide from you but I thought you'd be really angry and I heard you yelling at Mycroft-"

"_Sherlock_-"

"And I-mmph!" He shuts up as John's hand clamps over his mouth.

"We're going to wake him up. Come on, we'll talk out in the hall."

Sherlock allows himself to be guided by one shoulder outside, and when John closes the door and kneels in front of him, it's all he can do not to throw himself into the man's embrace.

"Sherlock," John says quietly, hands on his knees. "What happened was an accident, and it is _not_ your fault that Mycroft is hurt. But you _should_ have been listening to me…and, Sherlock, you should not have run from me after."

Sherlock lowers his head and wraps his arms around himself. "I thought you'd be mad."

"I _was_ mad, Sherlock." John says, calmly. "But that doesn't mean you had any reason to hide from me. How many times am I going to be forced to tell you that?"

Sherlock looks down, shrugging wordlessly. He knows that; he was never once _frightened_ of John. But the thought of having caused such pain to a man he so cared for…his heart had sank. He hadn't been frightened, he realizes, he'd been _guilty_, and _ that_ had frightened him.

And now, John is looking at him as if betrayed.

Sherlock reaches out, touches John's shirt, and pulls himself in.

"I didn't mean to." He whispers, and after a moment, feels John hoist him easily into the air. "I didn't mean to break it."

"I know." He replies, and they are walking; moving, Sherlock realizes, to a chair. They sit down and John tucks him into his chest, head down over his hair.

"Sherlock, you realize it was just a picture."

"Yes, but it was a picture of Mary, and you loved her." He replies softly, pressing his face into the man's shirt.

"Sherlock. Here, look at me for a moment."

Sherlock looks up, and John gently tucks a hand under his chin. "Sherlock, if I told you that without that picture, I have a lot of trouble remembering what Mary looked like, would you believe me?"

"Of course. You don't lie, and when you try, you're bad at it." Sherlock meets his eyes, guilt turning gray to near-black. "I didn't mean-"

"Hush and listen." John shifts, adjusting Sherlock on his lap and pressing a soft kiss to his dark hair. "I thought that because I couldn't remember Mary as well as I had, that I was betraying her, somehow. Do you understand? And when you broke the picture- I was angry, Sherlock, that you did what I said not to do, but I was also frightened. I was frightened that I would…" He stops, closing his eyes for a moment. "I would stop remembering her altogether. And that is foolish, and silly, but human emotion is more often then not."

Sherlock is quiet during this, and one little hand travels up to pat his cheek, solemnly. "It _is_ foolish." He informs calmly, but there is no cruelty in that little voice. "You loved her. You'd never forget her. You're not that sort of person."

John smiles fondly, brushing a hand over Sherlock's hair. "I know, Sherlock. I know, I just lost my head for a moment, I suppose."

They both sit in silence for a moment, Sherlock resting on his chest. Then, softly; "I guess maybe so did I. I guess Mycroft and I both did."

"Sherlock-" John tries, but the boy is already shaking his head, pulling back. "I don't know how to-" He starts, then stops, pressing his face hard into John's chest. "I don't know how to. But I want to be your family. I just- I don't know-_how_-"

"Sherlock. Sherlock." John pushes a hand through his hair, lowering their foreheads together. "Stop rambling, darling, I know. I know."

And suddenly he is very aware that the little dark head, tucked under his chin, is shaking, that he seems to be trying very hard not to cry.

"It's alright." He says, gently. "Oh, Sherlock, let go. It's alright." The boy is exhausted, and frightened, and has held so much in for so long, and for heaven's sake, he's just a _boy_. John's heart breaks as Sherlock hides his face in his chest and _weeps_.

"Don't run from me anymore." He whispers. "That's step one, understand? That's the first step. Don't run from me, love."

Sherlock nods, wordlessly.

"I love you." He goes on softly. "Nothing will change that I love you. Remembering that is step two. We'll start with those two things, sound fair?"

Sherlock nods once more, wrapping his little arms around John. "We'll do this as slowly as you need, Sherlock. But you have to meet me halfway."

Sherlock only burries closer and whimpers, cradled warmly in John's arms. Somewhere down the line, he falls asleep, and Watson stands, carefully, and deposits him into bed next to Mycroft. He tucks both boys in, shushing Mycroft when the older boy stirs and blinks groggily.

"Are you comfortable?" He murmurs, and Mycroft rolls over, taking Sherlock into a bear hug and nodding once.

John settles himself in the chair again, setting the book aside, propping his feet up, and looking out the window.

When he dreams, Mary dances and laughs and sings, and loves him with her whole self. She is alive and whole and real, and her blond hair glints with light and her blue eyes glint with love, and she smiles and touches his face and speaks, and he hears her voice as clear as he ever did.

"_My John." _

When he wakes up, Sherlock and Mycroft have migrated to his lap. They are real and alive and whole, and their dark hair is mussed with sleep and one little head is wrapped with bandages. Their dark eyes, so keen and intelligent, are closed in peaceful slumber, and Sherlock smiles in his sleep and Mycroft sighs and nestles closer, clutching John's shirt.

And they don't need to say a word for him to hear them say it, too.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I'm SO SORRY this took forever to get up; I've had the worst case of writer's block. :-_- But here it is ,at last, the final chapter of the second in this series. Thanks to all of you for sticking with me through it and for being such great reviewers!

**Chapter 6**

It doesn't take him long to realize that Sherlock has far more sensitive- well, _senses_- then most people.

It takes him far longer to figure out what to do about it.

It starts the first time they have to weather a storm.

Lightening, thunder, the steady pounding of rain and the howl of the wind; Mycroft seems enraptured by it all. He sits by the window, all curled up, his (still too heavy, and not shrinking any time soon no matter _how_ much John tries) frame tucked in upon itself, his gray eyes distant and far-away. Nothing in his hands, he seems content to stare out at the magnificence and power of the storm.

John himself has always loved them; they are wild power, strength- utterly untamed and unpredictable. They put him in mind of an animal, or perhaps of simply a different place then London, a place without it's constraints and rigidity. Not that he doesn't love his home- he does- but sometimes…

Sometimes.

Watching Mycroft watching it, though, he thinks, might be even more enjoyable. The boy is utterly still, utterly relaxed, more at peace then he has ever seen him.

Thunder booms close enough to shake the entire house. John jumps despite himself, and Mycroft's eyes snap open, wide and wild for one moment.

"Close." John murmurs, hand on his pounding heart.

"Loud." Mycroft mutters, seeming to wake from his stupor. He turns his gaze to John, tucking up more firmly and yawning. "You might want to go find Sherlock."

One the one hand, John feel the knot in his chest unravel just that much more. That Mycroft is unconcernedly informing him there might be a problem rather then racing off to go find his baby brother and hide from him shows just how far they've come since the Mary Incident.

On the other, concern makes it knot more tightly.

He stands, setting down his book. "Why?" He asks softly.

"He's not fond of storms. Or any loud noises, really." Mycroft has gone back to looking out the window. "He never has been."

"Where is he, Mycroft?"

"Probably in his bedroom. Probably under the bed." Mycroft at last turns to face him. "Normally I would be there, with him." He says, pointedly.

"I'll take care of him." John assures, gently. Mycroft studies him for a long moment, and then inclines his head slightly in a manner so adult that John is not sure if he should laugh or cry.

He stands, leaving the room- the last he sees of Mycroft the boy is tucking up again with a sleepy yawn and leaning on the arm of the chair- and goes to find Sherlock.

He finds him exactly where Mycroft has said; curled into a ball under the bed. And he has every time since.

At first, he thought it was just the storms, but after a few weeks he quickly realizes crowds, busy streets, public places, even average places that were common to visit. It wouldn't be long before the boy would be hiding pathetically behind John's leg or clamping his hands over his ears and chanting (in French, disturbingly, which John hadn't realized he'd known. Mycroft explained that they'd had a father who was multilingual. They both knew a little of a lot, but French they spoke nearly like natives.)

He tries everything he knows to help the boy; but frankly, outside of sedating the poor thing, there's very little one can do for heightened senses. Mycroft suffers from it, too, though to a much lesser extent, and seems much more able to handle it. Though, every once in a while, he will see Mycroft flinch at a particularly loud sound, or withdraw into himself when in the middle of a crowd; but frankly, the boy is wide and tall and only getting bigger as he gets older, and it's pretty impossible for him to simply disappear.

It's the day John ends up cradling him in his arms, rocking him gently while he whimpers and mutters and clamps his hands over his ears so hard he draws blood in his own scalp and Mycroft watches from the other chair, looking helpless and smaller then such a big boy should ever look, that John decides that enough it enough.

But he's still not sure what to do about it.

He figures it out by accident.

If John can get Sherlock to focus on one thing- just one thing- then he'll calm down. First it's simple; his voice. He holds Sherlock in his arms and rocks him and just _talks_, because he doesn't know what else to do, but slowly the boy relaxes and his hands move from his own head to John's shirt and his face hides there, too. And John realizes the more he talks the more Sherlock calms, and Mycroft has sat up, staring hard at both of them with that gaze far too old and too wise for a young boy.

So John keeps talking. A low, steady flow of words, nonsense words, _meaningless_, about the weather, a book, trips planned, patients, anything that happened to come to mind. Everything.

Ever since then, he knew what he had to do. Talking to him works best; Sherlock latches onto his voice like a drowning man to a rope. But sometimes he can get the young man to focus on a puzzle, or a certain thing or person, or get _him_ talking, or working over some problem.

Years later- when Watson is aging well and Mycroft holds a government position that doesn't surprise him at all and Sherlock is becoming the most well known private- _consulting_- detective in London, perhaps even beyond it, _definitely_ beyond it to a point- Sherlock shows up at his front door. He's pale and wane and when Watson ushers him in, the dark-haired man doesn't have to say a word. John just wraps Sherlock in his arms and lets him shake and shake, and talks quietly about the weather.


End file.
